Chapter XX

“Findings—Keepings”

The Inspector was the first man of the three to speak. Into his voice there had crept an added sternness. “Mr. Branston,” he said, “I presume that you realise the gravity of your last statement—and also the extreme seriousness of your position generally?”

Branston went whiter than ever and his lips worked nervously. “W—what do you mean, exactly?” he murmured.

“Your story of the circumstances in which this young lady was cruelly murdered might very well be described as a fantastic one. That much surely, you would admit yourself? Moreover, its only corroboration comes from Mrs. Bertenshaw, from whom you now admit also receiving fifty pounds! In the very notes that had been originally in the dead girl’s possession! You’re in a nasty situation, Mr. Branston!”

Branston was quick to reply. “Whatever position I’m in, Inspector,” he said, “I’ve told you the truth. I can’t do more and I’m not going to do less. The story I have told you is a true account of what took place here on the afternoon of the murder—and _true in every particular_. I’ve put nothing in—neither have I kept anything back.” He paused—with more than a hint of defiance. “You had better interview Mrs. Bertenshaw again,” he added, “and see what she has to say. I should very much like you to.”

“Send for her,” said Bannister, with a curt movement of the head. Branston did so.

“Shall I remain here?” he demanded sourly.

“For the moment,” snapped Bannister.

Mrs. Bertenshaw advanced timidly—her timidity increasing perceptibly when she discovered the nature of the company.

“Yes, sir?” she opened, with a glance at her employer.

“These gentlemen desire to ask you one or two more questions with regard to what happened here last week, Mrs. Bertenshaw. Please tell them the truth.” Branston turned away and lit a cigarette cavalierly.

But Bannister had already begun to congratulate himself upon the turn that affairs had taken. He had noticed a certain look in the eyes of this woman—a look he had seen so many times before in the eyes of people whom he had been forced to question that he was able to recognise it at once and which is more, apprehend its meaning. Mrs. Bertenshaw was frightened. There was no gainsaying that fact. The Inspector tried to tell himself that he was “warmer” than he had been before. The woman’s thin anxious face met his.

“What is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked nervously.

Bannister appeared all urbanity—perhaps his most dangerous mood, if his opponents only knew it. “I merely want to ask you a question or two, Mrs. Bertenshaw,” he said smilingly, “and I’m sure you’ll find no difficulty whatever in answering them.”

Mrs. Bertenshaw’s eyes flickered in his direction, then dropped to the ground again. Bannister recognised the symptoms and went on. “A year ago—or at all events—_about_ a year ago Mr. Branston here lent you the sum of fifty pounds. Is that so?”

The danger signals were now showing in Mrs. Bertenshaw’s cheeks. “Yes, sir,” she said in hardly more than a whisper. “That’s perfectly true. He lent it to me to advance to my only boy who went to Calcutta—he had a good chance offered to him out there—without that fifty pounds he couldn’t have taken advantage of it. It was very kind of Mr. Branston.”

“I see,” said Bannister, “and I suppose the fact that you owed that fifty pounds to Mr. Branston has been a source of worry to you, ever since—eh?”

“What do you mean? I don’t quite understand you.” A mere whisper now.

Bannister continued inexorably. He was top-dog now.

“You were impatient to repay it shall we say? A very commendable instinct.” He smiled at her with a suggestion of beneficent approval. He almost beamed upon her. Then suddenly he struck—and struck home! “You repaid it yesterday, Mrs. Bertenshaw—_where did you get it from?_”

Mrs. Bertenshaw’s lips moved as though to reply to him but they failed—no sound passed through them—no answer was forthcoming. She was literally speechless. Branston looked at her sympathetically, Godfrey thought—no doubt he would have liked to come to her assistance—so pitiable an appearance did she present.

“I’m waiting to hear what you have to say,” proceeded Bannister. “It shouldn’t be difficult for you to answer after all. You must have got them from somewhere. Come now!”

“I found them,” she whispered.

“Be very careful now—because there’s a most vital reason why you should be very careful. Very careful indeed. _Those notes belonged to Sheila Delaney, the young girl that’s been murdered!_ That’s been proved conclusively.”

He stood and watched her. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s eyes were fixed on him in a kind of frightened stare, but Sergeant Godfrey felt certain that the stare contained an element of surprise. Surprise that was not simulated.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said agitatedly. “I found the notes—as I told you. I don’t know anything about the murder. I never saw Miss Delaney in my life until I saw her dead in the master’s chair—that’s the solemn truth if I never speak another word.”

“Found them?” exclaimed Branston in marked surprise.

“Found them?” echoed Bannister, incredulously. “Where—in the name of goodness?”

Mrs. Bertenshaw looked feebly across at Branston, seemingly to invite his assistance. But it was unavailing. If Branston knew anything he was not intending to divulge it. Mrs. Bertenshaw must tell her own story in her own way.

“I found those notes,” she repeated, “and the money was a perfect God-send to me. No woman could ever speak truer words than those. I yielded to the temptation to keep silent about it. Please forgive me, Mr. Branston, if I’ve unwittingly brought any trouble to you. Nothing was farther from my intention. It makes me feel that I’ve repaid your kindness so badly. But I’ll make a clean breast of the whole affair.” She wiped her lips with her handkerchief. “In a way I’m glad it’s all come out. I’ve been dreadfully worried and scared about it ever since it happened. I haven’t been able to sleep properly. I found those notes on the very afternoon that Miss Delaney was murdered.”

“Where?” rapped Bannister.

“I’ll tell you. About five o’clock that afternoon—after the first excitement and everything had died down a bit—I had occasion to go along the passage towards the door where the master’s patients usually come in. The door that’s in Coolwater Avenue. In the hall there, we have a very handsome art-pot that stands on a pedestal in the corner—that high.” She indicated the height with her right hand. “As I walked past it—on my way back that is from the door—I noticed something that I thought was tissue-paper lying inside the art-pot. I put my hand in—to remove it—almost mechanically—you might say—it looked untidy—a thing I hate—when to my utter surprise I found that what I had thought was a bundle of tissue-paper was in reality a wad of bank-notes amounting to a hundred pounds. I was knocked all of a heap! My first inclination was to call Mr. Branston. But I hesitated. Then the temptation to say nothing came to me.” Her voice broke and her self-control deserted her. She burst out sobbing. “I needed money badly. You people who never want for a few pounds don’t realise what it is to be in debt year after year and to see little chance of ever getting out. To be forced to borrow for anything special because you have no margin. Self-denial and going without most of the things that make life worth living may mean the saving of a few shillings, month by month, but no more than that. It takes a life-time to scrape fifty pounds together saving like that—and there was a hundred pounds here.”

“How did you know it didn’t belong to Mr. Branston?” Bannister flashed the question at her. She shook her head.

“I didn’t know,” she sobbed. “I had to take my chance. I listened, though, to hear any mention of him having lost any money—or if anybody else had. But I heard nothing—so I kept part of it myself and re-paid the fifty pounds I owed to Mr. Branston.”

“Didn’t it occur to you to connect it with the murder?” exclaimed the Inspector.

“I didn’t know what to think. I was terribly worried. What I said to myself was this. If the young lady had been murdered for her money—why was the money thrown into the art-pot? I puzzled my head over it at least fifty times—but I was never able to satisfy myself. There was no mention in any of the papers of the young lady having lost any money—so I could be certain you see.”

“She’s right Inspector,” interposed Branston. “That’s a poser to me—I frankly confess it. If the murderer took the money off Miss Delaney why in the name of all that’s wonderful did he leave it behind—deliberately, at that?”

“He may have realised that to retain the notes spelt ‘Danger’ in capital letters. That is assuming this last story to be true. I’m damned if I know where I’m getting to. Shew me this passage where you say you found these notes.”

Mrs. Bertenshaw conducted them down. The art-pot stood upon the pedestal as she had described it—approximately four feet high. “That was where I found the money,” she said simply. “It is easy to see into there as you pass by—especially on your way back from the door.”

Bannister looked inside and then turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “Come on, Godfrey,” he said, “this case is getting on my nerves. Good-afternoon, everybody.” He opened the door of the car and motioned to the Sergeant to precede him. “What do you make of it?” queried the latter. “Leaving those notes behind—I mean! After all—as the woman herself said—why take them to leave them behind?”

Bannister leaned over authoritatively and tapped him on the arm. “Supposing,” he said, “supposing the murderer wanted something—very badly—and couldn’t get that particular something without first taking the notes as well—what then?”

“I’m not good at riddles,” said Sergeant Godfrey.